Unreality TV

Television: miraculous invention or mind-numbing instrument? Whether you love it or hate it, TV isn't going anywhere. (Indeed, it's hard to believe that the unrelenting barrage of reality shows will ever stop.) Critics of television tend to focus on how the media desensitize people to serious topics (war, world hunger), for when you can simply change a channel to something more cheerful, how can anyone ever be expected to invest in anything real? Reality—and our perception of it—is the focus of Alex De Witt's Prime Time, which attempts to eviscerate the false sense of security that is created when one lives in the suburbs and watches the world from the safety of a cozy living room. This would-be comedy falls short of its noble goal, however, and its razor-sharp critique is dulled by an incoherent script, lackluster direction, and tepid performances.

It all starts off well enough, as we are presented with a "normal" middle-class living room in the suburbs of Detroit. Wealthy John Ball, his pretty wife Helen, and their two young children live an idyllic life far beyond the reaches of social ills like racism and poverty, which they see only through their television screen. Or rather, which they don't see, since they have the option of turning the channel when things get too harsh for their tender hearts.

When a female face appears over the static on the huge television screen, she informs John that never in history has there been "such a divide between the haves and the have-nots." She explains that what he has is a "luxury"—the luxury to worry about anything other than mere survival.

In the next scene, the same woman appears onstage as John's long-lost sister Sarafina. Obviously pregnant, she shows up at the house late one night with her boyfriend Carl in tow. She explains that she is trying to straighten out her life and wants a place to stay for a while. Carl, we learn, is a member of a gang in Detroit, and the next morning reality (in the form of three gang members out to seek revenge against Carl) explodes into John and Helen's home.

"This is just like on TV," Helen comments flatly as one of the men draws a gun. Although her script is obviously meant to eschew naturalism, De Witt has drawn characters that are overwhelmingly—and uselessly—two-dimensional. And without a structure taut enough to illuminate their faults, the characters simply fall flat when they might have been used to illustrate more compelling truths.

For example, as two stagehands appear between scenes to rearrange the set and comment on the action, their ideas—inexplicably—seem to influence the plot. When they fantasize about violence, the following scene feels like an homage to Quentin Tarantino films, but it's violence filled with gratuitous expletives and racial stereotypes.

Even more troubling is when the stagehands fantasize about two women being intimate, and Helen and Sarafina enter for an erotic scene on a kitchen table. While in theory this is likely meant to point out the ridiculousness of such audience-pleasing conventions, De Witt's elementary critique only objectifies the women further, adding to the problem rather than attempting to abate it. (A moment of unnecessary nudity by one of the actors—also the playwright—only furthers the confusion.)

Still, every so often a character says something interesting. "I want to live my life, not watch everyone else's," John announces. And Helen despairs that her life "looks like a Hallmark card commercial, but it doesn't feel like a Hallmark card commercial." Unfortunately, these statements are not investigated to any satisfying depth. Instead, they are muffled by—among other profundities—Sarafina's explanation that "in the dark, they're all the same," as she confides in Helen about her sexual relationship with Carl.

Fern R. Lopez's direction locates and maintains a stagnant tempo throughout the production, and Josh Zangen's spare set is functional, if rather confusing. (Why, oh why, in an obviously middle-class home, would the TV set sit directly on the floor?) Lighting designer Jennifer Schriever gives the production its most professional touch, and the lights of the television flicker with an attention to detail that is largely missing elsewhere.

The recent surge of reality TV has prompted many to consider television's potential to represent a coherent reality, leading to thoughtful debate and critique of a media outlet that, at its best, can both entertain and inform. But instead of encouraging us to consider how we might improve this reality, Prime Time is only further confirmation of how misguided we can be.

Vampire Cowboys Theater Company: Guts, Gore, and Mainstream Appeal

Now that Lestat, the latest vampire musical, has suffered a critical drubbing, a theatergoer could hardly be faulted for being a bit skeptical about a dramatic group whose name evokes those nocturnal, bloodsucking creatures. But the Vampire Cowboys Theater Company (VCTC), a young yet already well-received New York-based theater troupe, is determined to push against any and all expectations, and that includes its name.

Not that its work has much to do with vampires anyway. Co-founders Qui Nguyen and Robert Ross Parker, who met while theater graduate students at Ohio University, invented the name, quite simply, from two things they liked—vampires for Nguyen, cowboys for Parker.

Although they were advised by a mentor to change their name to "something more serious," the name stuck, and Nguyen defends their choice while revealing his company's mission. "We'll earn the respect of other people by the work we do," he says. "If you're going to judge us by the name Vampire Cowboys, then you shouldn't be our audience member anyway. Our first mission is to entertain. We try to make theater that people love."

Over five years have passed since the inception of the Vampire Cowboys, and since then the troupe has incubated transcendent new work and talent while producing a healthy handful of shows, including a sold-out run at the 2004 New York International Fringe Festival. Perhaps best known for their potent blend of genres and artistic conventions, the Vampire Cowboys are deeply committed to exploring weighty subject matter through such mediums as stage combat and comic books, music and pop culture.

Vampire Cowboys Theater Company's Poster from Living Dead in Denmark

The group is now presenting what is perhaps its most ambitious work to date, Living Dead in Denmark, a sequel to (and "skewering" of) Hamlet, in which a resurrected Ophelia leads other deceased Shakespearean heroines (including Juliet and Lady Macbeth) to defend Denmark against a herd of zombies.

Sound a bit bizarre? Nguyen, who wrote the play, certainly concurs. "It's a 'zombie Hamlet,' " he attests. "Completely goofy." But before you dismiss it completely, consider that the Vampire Cowboys have been refining this particular piece of theater for years now. Not only that, but beneath the complex fight choreography and visual feast, this play is a treatise on race.

Don't let the surface spontaneity fool you; there is something both steady and studied coursing through the veins of these Vampire Cowboys. And although they presumably want to take you on a wild theatrical adventure, they won't leave you to crash and burn unattended. "Rides aren't fun when you don't feel like the person driving the car knows how to drive," Nguyen points out. "We want to make sure that people feel safe in our hands."

Living Dead in Denmark Publicity Photo

***

At Ohio University, Nguyen was appalled to see students who had dedicated their lives to theater watching dated plays with little connection to their own lives. "I realized," he remembers, "that these 20-year-old kids from Ohio had no clue what theater could be." Inspired to fill the gap, Nguyen and Parker joined forces to "create a show that was about now," and VCTC was born, along with its first theatrical triptych, The Vampire Cowboy Trilogy.

There was a "crazy reaction from everyone at school," Nguyen recalls. "They had never seen anything so immediate." The two brought their concept to New York in 2002, where they expected to be surrounded by similar-minded artists. Scanning the theater scene, however, they were disappointed as they discovered shows that had either a good idea or good craftsmanship, but rarely both.

With money out of their own pockets, they staged their New York premiere, Stained Glass Ugly, in the summer of 2003, and began to generate a healthy fan base. Wisely, they keep a close eye on their audience and have worked to maintain an open relationship with their fans. Their "First Bite" series, in fact, is designed to invite candid audience response. Living Dead in Denmark once ran in the series, and, as with their other shows, Nguyen reports that "the audience was very honest about the things they loved and the things they hated."

It seems wise—and rather unprecedented—to pay such close attention to an audience's reaction, but it's a formula that works for VCTC. "It's all about communicating," Nguyen says. "We're trying to get the audience to get it. We start out very story-based and plot-driven, and then we add the other stuff. We celebrate spectacle on top of it all."

And spectacle, in this case, is anything but gratuitous. Instead of throwing in meaningless binges of special effects, risks are taken to enhance the power of the storytelling. As they take on provocative subjects such as child molestation and race, the Vampire Cowboys are committed to communicating as clearly and effectively as possible.

Most often, the clearest communication happens visually. Parker and Nguyen were both trained as movement artists, although Parker (director of most VCTC ventures) comes from a more Western, European aesthetic, while Nguyen (playwright and frequent fight choreographer) brings more of an American and Eastern sensibility to the group. Their joint embrace of movement, Nguyen explains, helps to "keep the medium very visual."

A Beginner's Guide to Deicide

"It's not locked in tradition, but in how we can get from A to B in the quickest, easiest, and most entertaining way," he says. "It's a very cinematic view, and it keeps it visually exciting for a whole generation of people who were raised on MTV." But he admits that "it is a tightrope in how you implement the visual with the literal."

VCTC definitely attracts a younger demographic (mostly 18- to 30-year-olds)—the very demographic, ironically, that Broadway shows so often attempt—and fail—to entice. Nguyen attributes this appeal, in part, to VCTC's commitment to reach "the geek in all of us." In this sense, VCTC shows are an outlet for anyone who has ever played chess, went to a sci-fi convention, bought a ticket to Spider-Man, or obsessed over Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

"I don't think there's anybody who doesn't have a geeky side," Nguyen maintains. "We're appealing to that kind of nerdy side of everyone."

Nguyen and Parker continue to revise their shows right up to the end of the rehearsal process, preserving a freshness that is very immediate. Scripts aren't locked until the last possible moment, and the commitment to collaboration is strong and unrelenting. Nguyen describes the group as an "artistic collective," a community of "consummate professionals" (several designers have worked on Broadway and Off-Broadway shows) who constantly inspire and "push each other to make bold choices." And thanks to the individual strengths of company members, the productions often evolve in unexpected but exciting directions as the creative team adds to the mix the members' talents in puppetry, multimedia, and music composition.

As a theater kid who was "overeducated in the classics," Nguyen is determined to use his background to create theater that is relevant today. Future goals for VCTC include producing more shows and continuing to grow as a theater company. "We don't want to be Broadway, movies, or the next TV series," Nguyen says. "We want to be the Vampire Cowboys Theater Company—a company that makes theater that we hope excites people as much as these other mediums. Live theater and live events are important, and as relevant as anything they can see on a screen."

Managing Director Abby Marcus has also helped with the company's growth. Nguyen calls her "the person who keeps our feet on the ground" financially, and she is helping VCTC work toward becoming a 501(c)(3) nonprofit organization.

Still, Nguyen says, "there's no rush. We don't need to be the next big thing tomorrow. We're going to be here for a long time."

He adds, "I think we're very distinct in that we are creating for an audience that is very much us, and we're representing things that are very now and pop-culture mainstream. But there's no pretentiousness. I love so much stuff, and I get to do all that stuff in one show."

Vampire Cowboy Trilogy

***

"Watch your grunts per move," fight director Marius Hanford warns his actors as they proceed through an especially complicated fight sequence. We're in a warmly lighted rehearsal space in Brooklyn's Williamsburg, and one actress sits on the floor, icing a sore muscle, while a slew of grotesque zombie masks sit on a table, staring blankly at the proceedings. Band-Aids, kneepads, and rubber entrails are strewn across the floor, and as Hanford finesses a routine, the other actors sit in rapt attention.

Everyone seems exceptionally keyed into the rehearsal. Even when the performers are given a 10-minute break, nobody actually breaks. Sweating and obviously near exhaustion, they continue to work at perfecting every thrust and jab of their weapons. Certainly, it pays to be precise when daggers are flying near your face, but the performers' interest clearly extends beyond concern for personal safety. As Hanford works to craft movements to fit and flesh out a character, each performer seems to be creating a sense of self out of every unique movement.

Or, alternately, out of a moment of stillness. "There! You see? Here he decides he doesn't need martial arts anymore," Hanford instructs a performer whose character suddenly abandons a fight.

The movements are stylized and vicious, disarming in their precision. The actors burst out laughing in their first attempts to use squibs (small bags filled with stage blood—water, for this rehearsal) to simulate blood spurting.

And here is the evidence of the collaboration Nguyen promised. Parker, the director, chimes in to better define a moment, while Hanford openly considers suggestions from the actors.

When I ask them for an encapsulated definition of a VCTC production, the response becomes yet another exercise in collaboration. "It's a living comic book," offers Marcus. "It defies genre," claims Parker, but then concedes, "It's like a movie, but better."

The 10 actors don't seem particularly concerned about definitions; instead, they're absorbed in the immediate, in the now. After Nguyen, who often directs the fights, jumps up to clarify a pivotal moment, Parker looks at him slyly, wagging one of the rubber entrails at his co-conspirator. "You've got guts, young man," he pronounces. "Guts." And this, perhaps, best sums up what drives the Vampire Cowboys Theater Company.

Living Dead in Denmark runs May 4-21 at Center Stage NY at 48 West 21st Street, fourth floor. Performance times are Thursday-Sunday at 8 p.m. Tickets are $18 and are available at TheaterMania.com. For more information on the Vampire Cowboys Theater Company, visit www.vampirecowboys.com.

Searching for Sanctuary

When a play opens on Broadway, it is judged by critics and audiences within its specific cultural moment; reviews can either buttress or deflate a production, but the work's lasting impact is more difficult to predict or measure. As years pass, a playwright's words can become more or less profound, and a play's longevity is often dependent on its reception by regional audiences, as well as the creative ingenuity of the theater companies that choose to rescue it from obscurity. When esteemed playwright Lanford Wilson's play Angels Fall opened on Broadway in 1982, New York Times critic Frank Rich was quick to point out its "ailments." Although Wilson had won the Pulitzer in 1980 for Talley's Folly, his latest effort played a scant 57 performances.

Some 25 years later, Theater Forum has revived Angels Fall in a compelling, intimate production, staging Wilson's play—a study of six individuals stranded in a mission church in New Mexico—where it might have worked best all along: in a church's sanctuary.

Set designer Andrew Seltz has cordoned off a section of the cavernous Church of All Nations to create this intimate sanctuary, where the audience surrounds the playing space on three sides. The tiny mission contains six pews, and the actors, directed with sensitivity by the capable Russell Taylor, move fluidly within the snug space.

The six arrive at the church for various reasons, but they are all detained when the roads are closed due to complications loosely ascribed to a mine explosion with potential nuclear fallout. Wilson has been called an American Chekhov, and Angels Falls is definitely an in-depth Chekhovian character study. In a relatively static environment, there is little overtly physical action but plenty of emotional conflict as the characters interact with one another to locate the sources of sanctuary in their lives beyond the mission. Wilson's script constructs a poetic, almost timeless dramatic landscape.

He populates this landscape with flawed, lovably human characters stricken with a variety of crises, and the well-cast performers turn in fine performances all around. Niles Harris (Jeff Farber), a middle-aged art history professor, has recently abandoned teaching after losing faith in the merits of academic knowledge. He is accompanied by his wife, Vita (Kathryn Barnhardt), his one-time student and now caretaker, who is traveling with him on a trip to Phoenix for mental treatment and rejuvenation. In two exceptional performances, Farber handles Niles's fits of histrionics with humor and ease, while Barnhardt gives a refreshingly layered performance as a young wife determined to stay cheerful even in the face of her husband's explosions.

The warm and compassionate Marion Clay (June Flanagan), although still visibly upset by the recent death of her artist husband, stops in with her young lover, Zappy Zappala (Frankie Ferrara), a haughty professional tennis player, on their way to his next big tournament. Ferrara offers a well-nuanced take on the high-strung, hypochondriac Zappy, while Flanagan brings a warmly compassionate—although sometimes uncomfortably maternal—quality to Marion. Her relationship with Zappy does not immediately come across as a romantic one.

The bright young Navajo doctor Don Tabaha (Andrew Reaves) is torn between staying in New Mexico to minister to the Indian tribes who need his services or taking a high-profile research job, the work to which he feels more suited. The mission's energetic priest, Father Doherty (Tim Moore), makes no secret of his opinion on the matter, goading Don with guilt and even hiding his keys to defer his departure. Reaves is appropriately intense as the conflicted Don, and Moore's Father Doherty is impishly jovial as he mischievously hurls rocks at the low-flying helicopters.

When the helicopters finally announce that the roads are clear, Father Doherty shouts back, "You've given us all our monthly dose of fear, now fly back to White Sands and gloat. Shame. Shame! Don't they love to scare us to death. Don't we love them to do it. Can't you feel the tingling? Isn't fear exciting?"

In our post-9/11 age, the idea of sanctuary perhaps has more immediacy than it did in the early 1980s. And although the characters leave the mission irrefutably changed, to conclude that their problems have been solved would detract from Wilson's eloquent script. Instead, they—and we—have had a moment of communion, in a setting complete with altar and votive candles. This intersection of lives is certainly a theatrical convention, but it's also one of the minor miracles of devastating circumstances. And in this sense, Theater Forum gives us a thoughtful reinvention of Angels Fall, a play whose meaning has become even more potent in our particular cultural moment.

Waiting for Light

Faced with suffering and death, every person must find a way to make peace with the world. According to 70-year-old Ruth, "Nothing happens that God doesn't have a reason for." Trials can be chalked up merely as lessons from God, attempts "to reach down and shake us out of our ignorance." The disruption of ignorance is central to Marvin's Room, Scott McPherson's graceful study of a disjointed family whose idiosyncrasies are exacerbated by serious illness. The play earned a heap of major awards during the 1991-92 theater season and was later made into a star-powered film featuring Diane Keaton and Meryl Streep. T. Schreiber Studio has put together a pleasant—albeit lukewarm—revival, and although the intimately staged production lacks the urgency and emotional acuity to fully realize the play's more intricate themes, McPherson's script is undeniably important and well worth hearing again.

Redemption comes in many forms, McPherson acknowledges, but he refuses to tolerate apathy, celebrating instead the sweet and selfless nature of his heroine, Bessie (Noelle Holly), who has sacrificed much of her life and independence to care for her invalid father and aunt in Florida. At 40, Bessie learns that she has contracted leukemia, and the dutiful caregiver suddenly becomes a patient herself. In need of a match for a bone marrow transplant, she contacts her estranged younger sister, Lee (Jill Bianchini), who flies in from Ohio with two sons Bessie has never met.

Lee, clad provocatively in a slinky wardrobe, has weathered tempestuous relationships with men and maintains rocky ties with her sons. Hank (Michael Osborn), the eldest, lives in a mental institution (we later learn that he burned down their family home), while Charlie, too much absorbed in his own imagination, is failing in school. The quirky family also includes Ruth (Adair Jameson), Bessie's delightfully eccentric aunt, and, of course, Marvin (Donald Wolfe), the bedridden patriarch who makes erratic, unintelligible sounds from his room, partly visible through a blurred windowpane.

Bessie's illness is the catalyst for this unprecedented reunion, and the characters react and interact in relation to her condition. While the script doesn't shy away from the harsh realities of cancer (the wig Bessie wears to cover up the effects of her medication; the awkward, ugly family fights), McPherson's light touch infuses the proceedings with a welcome sense of humor. Bessie's physician, Dr. Wally (Trey Gibbons), for example, is an impossibly absurd figure—opening sterile equipment with his teeth—suggesting just how unequipped we are to deal with illness.

In this production, however, the action rarely feels as imperative as it should. Director Peter Jensen's staging is often static and mechanical, and the actors seem to click into place by the forces of routine rather than any emotional motivation. One of the play's miracles is the relationship that develops as Bessie begins to connect with the troubled, inscrutable Hank. Sitting stiffly on Bessie's porch, however, the two barely register a bond of any kind, and their words ricochet in empty space without energy, lacking the crucial spark that enlivens active communication.

On the whole, Holly handles her performance well, giving Bessie a serenity unmatched by those around her. As her sister (and foil), Bianchini brings bite and sass to Lee, although she sometimes turns her into a caricature drawn too broadly to be believable. The two actresses share an excellent scene in an impromptu late-night kitchen conversation. Here, one can feel the shared history and love that—despite their differences—will forever bond them together.

Osborn channels angst admirably as Hank, while Jameson is delightful as the soap opera-obsessed Ruth. Her devotion to these fictional characters, while unquestionably escapist, makes a strong case for how necessary such diversions—no matter how silly—can be.

Like the mellow, bluish tones of the set, this production is finally both too safe and too sedate, a subdued presentation of an exceptional script. McPherson's play debuted the same year he died from complications of AIDS, and the semi-autobiographical material (he based Bessie on his mother) represents people with broken, tired lives in search of hope and a path through their pain.

Although we never clearly see the titular character, Marvin—whether gasping or laughing—is nonetheless the work's centerpiece. He has been slowly dying for more than 20 years, but he still takes simple, childlike delight in the lamplight his family members refract throughout his room for his entertainment. This vital search for brightness in the face of death is, finally, the play's most important lesson.

Stormy Weather

With the recent popularity of Irish playwright Martin McDonagh, grisly theater has suddenly become very hip. The Pillowman made a smoldering impression on Broadway last year, while McDonagh's newest New York production, The Lieutenant of Inishmore, which leaves the stage bathed in blood, sold out its Off-Broadway run and will soon begin previews uptown. Audiences, it would seem, are eager to be tormented, even if it is vicariously from the comfort of their own seats. Now the Aussies have answered with their own psychological thriller, and although it lacks the pervasive social agenda that underpins much of McDonagh's work (not to mention the copious amounts of violence and blood), Freak Winds is a deliciously disturbing—and often helplessly humorous—addition to the canon of harrowing theatrical fare.

At the helm is Marshall Napier, who has managed to pull off a daunting triple feat. Not only does he write, direct, and star in the same play, but he manages to do each thing exceptionally well. Of course, experience is on his side—Freak Winds, which is his first full-length play, was already successfully produced in both Australia and New Zealand. And thanks to Hair of the Dog Productions, the play has found a new home tucked into the cozy Arclight Theater on the Upper West Side. Deftly acted and meticulously directed, Freak Winds draws us into a stormy night of ominous, mysteriously powerful forces.

Following up on a call, young insurance salesman Henry Crumb (Damian de Montemas) finds himself at the home of Ernest (Napier). Henry barely steps through the door when a tree falls and crushes his new Mercedes. Resigned to waiting out the storm in Ernest's comfortable living room, Henry begins his sales pitch. "What insurance buys you is peace of mind," he insists, but then, dodging his host's smart criticism, he concedes, "It can't protect you against being human."

Indeed, Henry's peace of mind soon dissipates as he is confronted with eerie and foreboding circumstances, ranging from the mildly curious—Ernest's sudden spells of nausea—to the unquestionably alarming—Henry's discovery of scrapbooks filled with newspaper clippings of horrendous murders. Napier's use of conventional horror devices brings welcome levity to the suspense, and the audience can't help but chuckle at the sound of a knife being sharpened when Ernest periodically leaves the room. It's testament to his finely honed script that Napier shrewdly disarms his audiences with obvious tricks, only to shock them with abrupt twists and turns (not to be revealed here).

As the presumably innocent salesman, de Montemas becomes convincingly disheveled, frustrated, and irate as he leads us on his quest to sift through multiple red herrings, uncover the truth, and escape. Napier's script is very wordy, and much of the humor depends on the actors' timing as they toss off bits of witty repartee. Thankfully, Napier and de Montemas deliver the zippy banter with expert elocution, and they are matched by Tamara Lovatt-Smith, who gives a terrific performance as Myra, Ernest's wheelchair-bound companion.

Although Napier's characters sometimes talk in circles, this only increases Henry's (and our) need to sort things out and understand what is really happening. Is Ernest a psychopath who is planning to kill Henry? And is Myra his roommate, daughter, lover, or worse?

Jeremy Chernick has devised a warm, inviting set that successfully belies the peculiarity of its inhabitants, while Andrew Ivanov has created an impressive array of creepy sounds.

Without taking itself too seriously, Freak Winds delves into a surreal world of madness and psychosexuality, and Napier's script lightly touches on Ernest's need to better understand humanity. He's interested in how and why we suffer, as well as how we can all (murderers included) share the common state of being human. But within the confines of this stormy evening, it's not certain what—if anything—we can believe, and Freak Winds quite winningly becomes little more than an enormously enjoyable thriller.

Bad Bloodline

He's a salesman with a swastika, a seamy womanizer with a reputedly small sex organ (see title). But what William Patrick Hitler really, really wants is to become a citizen of the United States. While this may sound like a farfetched horror story from World War II, Mark Kassen—who both wrote and stars in this fascinating bio play—has compiled detailed and diligent research to assure us of the very real existence of Adolf Hitler's estranged nephew (born in England as the son of Adolf's half-brother Alois). And under the precise direction of John Gould Rubin, Kassen's Little Willy offers a compelling portrait of a man who traded on the name of a madman in a desperate quest to become somebody—anybody—important.

But ironically it was this very name that he renounced while pleading for his (and his mother Brigid's) U.S. citizenship in 1942. The cyclical play pieces together Willy's own letter of recommendation to President Franklin D. Roosevelt while splicing in other defining moments of Willy's life: his tireless showmanship as a speaker and salesman (he hocked everything from automobiles to toothpaste), his wooing of Third Reich women, and his constant need to defend and assert himself, whether in prayer or in an interrogation room.

Despite an impressive and impassioned performance by Kassen, the brief 65-minute production often seems to skirt substantial information. The material lacks a certain potency, and the short, kaleidoscopic scenes rarely build to a level of truly satisfying dramatic tension. Of course, this may simply be an attempt to replicate the evasive nature of Willy himself, a slick chameleon who was willing to turn on a dime, renege on a deal, or sell out his family if it would bring him attention.

The production is at its most profound when Willy is at his most exposed. Late in the show, a woman (Roxanna Hope) throws herself at him, offering him sex so that he might rescue her young son from a concentration camp. Willy, so confident as a predator, all at once becomes impotent (in every sense), and he has no words with which to mask his utter powerlessness. "I'm just a lowly little car salesman," he protests. Hope, who joins Kassen in this and several other supporting roles, is a haunting presence, and she brings a stirring honesty and control to her characters.

Much of Little Willy's humor emerges in the juxtaposition of the trivial with the profound. Even as he interacts with victims of the genocide instituted by his uncle, Willy whines that he has never received full credit for convincing Adolf to shave his handlebar mustache. And he interrupts his own diatribe against Mein Kampf solely to plug his latest sponsor, Beech-Nut gum. The product placement is jarring and ridiculous, heightening Willy's insatiable desire for money, fame, and endless opportunity.

A huge projection screen fills the back wall of Clint Ramos's austere set, and Egon Kirincic's video design combines nicely with Nicole Pearce's pristine lighting to create an evocative, and rather ethereal, backdrop.

In Little Willy, Kassen brings a mostly forgotten (and arguably should be forgotten) man to life, giving us a peek at one of the original would-be celebrities. Adolf Hitler reportedly called Willy "my loathsome nephew" and paid him off exorbitantly to leave Germany. But with a last name that the world wants to erase from the lexicon, where does one go to escape? Queens became Willy's sanctuary, and, although he is now deceased, he lived to pass on his (new) name to three sons, all of whom still reside nearby. The extraordinary opportunist would never again hock a vacuum under the name of Hitler.

Bushwhacking

Recently, President George W. Bush's approval rating plummeted to 32 percent, leaving 68 percent of Americans still puzzling over exactly what went wrong during that immensely troubled, highly contested election of 2004. Joshua Rosenblum's lively, witty musical Bush is Bad, prescriptively subtitled "The Musical Cure for the Blue-State Blues," is a delicious tonic for disgruntled Democrats and their sympathizers, put forth by three winning performers with a multiplicity of talents and personalities. With such a blatant title, it's unlikely that any fervent Bush supporters will find their way into the Triad Theater. But be forewarned that our current president (often referred to as "the chimp") does not, shall we say, come off very well here. Neither do his supporters, as the opening number ("How Can 59 Million People Be So Dumb?") announces. But if you revel in any chance to poke fun at the man in the White House, Bush is Bad is the show for you.

Rosenblum's material often has all the subtlety of a Saturday Night Live skit, but he has managed to stretch his political parodies into 22 impressive musical numbers. In a show billed for its comedy, the expectation for laughter is precariously high, and Rosenblum's writing rarely disappoints. Although several songs might arguably run on a bit too long to sustain their jokes, they are all, more or less, humorous. Director Gary Slavin also keeps the pace moving at a healthy clip, and his simple choreography works efficiently on the small stage.

Although he is the central target, Bush is certainly not the only victim of Rosenblum's barbs. There's "Crazy Ann Coulter," "Poor Jack Abramoff," and the mocking "Good Conservative Values" (exposing the hypocrisy of the religious right). The melodies, while not memorable, are serviceable for material in which lyrics, above all, are the thing. But Rosenblum also proves himself adept at parody, penning lyrics for a sumptuous German art song ("Das Busch ist Schlecht"), a hilarious Andrew Lloyd Webber send-up ("Scooter Libby Superstar"), and a Kurt Weill-ian torch song ("Sure, You Betcha, Georgie").

Kate Baldwin, Neal Mayer, and Tom Treadwell form a tight ensemble (pay attention to their precise three-part harmonies), and each has a moment or two to steal the spotlight. Whether masquerading as Ann Coulter or Laura Bush, the crystal-voiced Baldwin scores with her steady comic assurance. Treadwell, the most recent addition to the cast, makes a convincing Dick Cheney, as well as the man Cheney recently shot (in the disturbingly funny "Mr Whittington Regrets"). And Mayer, a gifted song-and-dance man, capitalizes on every bit of his stage time. He offers a snappy take on "The Gay Agenda" and delivers one of the evening's highlights in "I'm Losing You, Karl." (Anyone who remembers the 2004 presidential debates will appreciate Mayer's spot-on impersonation of Bush as he strains to hear cues through an audio transmitter.)

Even if you're not quite up to date on the current political scene, the cast offers brief explanatory segues before each song to clear up any confusion. And it's to Rosenblum's credit that, rather than stay content with dated material (the show has been running some months now), he continues to change music and lyrics to incorporate current events. At the show's conclusion, we were treated to some new material (in the works) that referenced the recent controversy over whether a Dubai-owned company would take control of New York City ports.

Rosenblum's mission, it would seem, extends beyond simple entertainment into full-fledged political activism. "The 'I' Word," for example, lists Web sites that work toward the impeachment of Bush. And as he gleefully shared the news of the updated 32 percent approval rating with the audience at the show's conclusion, it was clear that Rosenblum is in this for the long haul.

To watch Bush is Bad is to witness the power of the First Amendment, musical style. And although it's as yet unclear whether the show will run until, well, the end of Bush's run (or drum up sufficient forces for impeachment), the packed crowd at the show I attended (undoubtedly a fraction of the 68 percent) seemed delighted at the opportunity to, at least for the moment, laugh their blues away.

War of Words

"When a war kills many, we must mourn for them—and if you win the war, you must grieve it." Taken from the Tao Te Ching, this is the epigraph of Ann Nelson's new play, Savages, a dryly didactic but well-intentioned account of the real life of Maj. Littleton Waller, a Marine charged with war crimes in the U.S.-Philippines War of 1902. Nelson shot to fame in 2001 with The Guys, a play based on her own experience ghostwriting eulogies for a New York City fire captain who lost men in the events of 9/11. But where Nelson's persuasive, intense journalistic style brought welcome clarity to The Guys, it inhibits the dramatic development of Savages. If you're not familiar with the war, you're not alone. Relegated to a mere historical hiccup, it doesn't hold much of a place in history books, and Nelson valiantly aims to bring it into our contemporary zeitgeist (while drawing a none-too-subtle parallel to our current situation in Iraq). Nelson spent years researching the Philippines, and it shows—her copious research and expertise is evident throughout the play. But shoehorning so much information into a 90-minute play is not the wisest decision, and what should be a taut drama unfolds as a stiff chapter from a history textbook.

Nelson approaches the war from four viewpoints that each represent a different experience of war. Central to the story is Maj. Waller (James Matthew Ryan), a Virginia-born aristocrat-turned-Marine whose wartime experiences have left him mortally ill and emotionally wounded. He arrives at an apartment in Manila in the midst of his trial, and the other characters are charged with preserving him until the next morning, when his verdict will be delivered. John Hanley (Brett Holland), a young, war-hungry corporal from Oklahoma, keeps watch in Waller's room; Gen. Chaffee (Jim Howard), a brash, middle-aged Army devotee from Ohio, conveys Waller to and from the trial; and Maridol (Julie Danao-Salkin), a young Filipino nurse, is hired to keep Waller comfortable.

The complexity of each character's relationship with the war is arresting on paper, but their interactions soon begin to sag with heavy-handed metaphors and forced instances of cultural collision. As Waller teaches Hanley how to play chess, he explains, "It's all about learning the rules, boy. That's the test of civilized combat. Know the true character of every piece." The comparison between chess and war (and courtroom) becomes all too obvious, all too quickly. And Hanley's limited knowledge of Filipino culture plays out in moments of rather stock ignorance (as he questions Maridol's religious convictions and samples her food) to mostly unsatisfying ends.

The dialogue is so jammed with information that the characters often seem to provide their own footnotes, breaking dramatic flow and cutting themselves off. "I remember when the story hit the paper," Chaffee says, recalling how he heard about Waller's devastating actions. "I called Jake into my office and sat him down—just like the old days out West.... 'Smith,' I say, 'Have you been having any promiscuous killing in Samar for fun?' " These parenthetical asides ("just like the old days out West") serve to educate the audience rather than realistically reveal character. In this way, moments of wrenching conflict arrive unbidden, and without much effect, at the play's conclusion.

Although Ryan makes a concerted effort to be sincere, he, Holland, and Howard have a difficult time bringing believable dimension to rather weakly defined characters. Danao-Salkin, however, gives Savages its humanity. She carefully listens to the men, perceptibly thinking through her words and actions. She even manages to clearly ground a non sequitur emotional eruption late in the show. And her exquisite, raw delivery of a traditional Filipino song as she soothes Waller to sleep is truly haunting, capturing both the sorrow and hope of a people whose home has been ravaged by the effects of war.

Lauren Helpern's simple set fits agreeably into the intimate Lion Theater, but Chris Jorie's direction, while steady, maintains a lethargic tempo. Much of the action plays out in simple conversational style, but Jorie inexplicably (and perhaps suggestively?) places Maridol behind Waller in his bed as she sings. Ensconced by mosquito netting, they present an odd, Pietà-like image.

Although Nelson claims her play is neither "for nor against war," it nonetheless evokes—perhaps due to the strong performance by Danao-Salkin—a decidedly antiwar stance. Maridol is the voice of people whose lives have been uprooted by a country that wishes to both colonize and civilize them—drawing undeniable parallels to our present war. Nelson is a voracious source of facts that have the potential to inspire, instruct, and change society, but a play (Savages, at least) may not be the best forum for her unquestionably expansive skills.

She-Hamlet

Amid the decaying opulence of the Brooklyn Academy of Music's Harvey Theater, there's trouble afoot, and her name is Hedda. In her much-anticipated American stage debut, Cate Blanchett gives a taut, intelligent, and revelatory performance as Ibsen's infamous anti-heroine. A renowned film actress (she won an Academy Award just last year for her portrayal of Katharine Hepburn in The Aviator), Blanchett originally got her start on the stage, and to watch her in this medium is to watch a performer who seems to have truly come home. In presenting the U.S. premiere of the Sydney Theater Company's award-winning Hedda Gabler, BAM has scored a coup de théâtre, wisely retaining all of the production's prime elements, from Andrew Upton's lively, smart adaptation to Kristian Fredrikson's sleek, sumptuous costumes. Under Robyn Nevin's evocative direction, this Hedda Gabler crackles with intensity and suspense. From the first dramatic moment when the lights go down (just quickly and unexpectedly enough to make you catch your breath), this highly visceral production will make you feel relieved to be watching from the relative safety of your seat.

The daughter of a respected general, Hedda has just returned to her new home from a six-month honeymoon with her husband, Jorgen Tesman (Anthony Weigh). The couple is clearly mismatched (shirking romantic whimsy, Hedda describes their union as "a match made on earth"), and she is openly bored by Tesman's uninspired academic ambitions. When her old acquaintance Thea Elvsted (Justine Clarke) bursts in with a frantic plea, Hedda begins to manipulate the lives of those around her—including a former love interest and a family friend—to tragic ends.

Hedda is often described as the female Hamlet—a role so filled with ambiguities and questionable motives that it requires an accomplished performer adept enough to negotiate its flimsy boundaries. Ibsen's writing is clear but spare, leaving much open to the interpretation of actor and director. In other words, it begs for the signature of a consummate actress.

Blanchett rises to the task and fully surpasses it with a superbly defined performance. Her Hedda is intelligent, cunning, and athletic—as she prowls the set, her fluid movements can never be counted on to follow a predictable pattern. Through the overt use of bars and a wall of jail-like windowpanes, set designer Fiona Crombie suggests Hedda's entrapment. But even as she lashes out with jealousy against her perceived captors, Blanchett disarmingly conveys the extent to which Hedda holds herself captive.

Discovering "what it's like to have control over someone's life," Blanchett uses her deep, husky voice to full advantage, infusing Ibsen's text with a multitude of colors and textures. "I get this urge," she moans, looking as if she'd rather be anywhere than laced into her high-necked gown. Urges and all, though, Hedda lives more through the lives of others rather than for herself. When Thea confides that she has run away from an unhappy domestic life, Hedda incredulously—and somewhat greedily—confirms, "You'd risk everything." Here, Hedda seems to speak to herself, faulting her own cowardice and a terror of scandal that paralyzes her. Like the colorful new furniture that Tesman requires Hedda to protect with muted covers, Blanchett's Hedda is stifled beneath a protective veneer of her own making.

Composer Alan John's music offers a powerful, supplemental rendering of Hedda's imprisonment. Reminiscent of a frenetic funeral dirge, the music employs pounding timpani and maddeningly plucked strings to reflect a state of inner chaos.

As Hedda's confidant, the gallant-turned-ghastly Judge Brack, Hugo Weaving gives a marvelously controlled performance as he admirably convinces the audience of his (questionably) good intentions. Clarke delicately brings forth the shrewdness of the ostensibly flighty and impressionable Thea, while admirably holding her own opposite Blanchett.

Weigh comes on a bit strong as Tesman (perhaps overselling his eccentric posturing), but his boyish energy successfully foils Hedda's sarcasm, often rendering him a spoiled and rather simple child. Aden Young makes a strong impression as the brooding author Ejlert Lovborg.

The answers to many of the play's questions are not self-evident (for example, why does Hedda marry Tesman in the first place?), and in the steady hands of the Sydney Theater Company—grounded by the even steadier presence of Blanchett—this Hedda Gabler makes a powerful statement about the importance of making choices for oneself, as well as the perils of inaction. And whether she makes you laugh, flinch, or shudder, Blanchett won't allow you to look away.

Put on a Show

About halfway through [title of show], Jeff Bowen and Hunter Bell's musical about making a musical, I began to wonder what all the fuss was about. Yes, self-referential humor can be funny, up to a point. And yes, dropping obscure musical-theater references can often be a witty choice. But for an entire show? Yet just when things begin to seem overly contrived, Heidi (Heidi Blickenstaff) performs the ballad "A Way Back to Then," a poignant tribute to the innocent child within every aspiring theater (or creative) professional. It's a deceptively simple story of sacrifice and aspiration that carries indelible truth, bringing clarity to everything that has already transpired. The show celebrates the noble dream of being "part of it all," but more than that, it exalts the importance of the individual in creating art.

In a spare, fluid production gleefully presented by the Vineyard Theater, [title of show] is a delightful look into the process of creating a musical. With a festival deadline rapidly approaching, Bowen and Bell decided to write a musical about the process of writing a musical, enlisting the help of two friends, Heidi and Susan (Susan Blackwell). They all play themselves (well, versions of themselves) as they collaborate to create an original musical.

As they begin to drum up ideas, casual conversation becomes dialogue, and jealousy becomes fodder for duets. Even the musical director/accompanist Larry (Larry Pressgrove, who plays the lone onstage keyboard) jumps into the action from time to time.

What sets [title of show] apart from other shows about making art is its refusal to push its tongue-in-cheek humor down our throats. Michael Berresse, a well-respected and successful New York actor making his directing debut, keeps the action restrained, preserving the honesty and integrity of the performers and their material. (He also contributes choreography with a light touch that charms without relying on in-your-face shtick.)

Several musical numbers, however, rely on jokes that eventually lose their luster, including "An Original Musical," which starts out strong but trails off haphazardly by the end. (Some one-liners just can't be suspended over an entire song.) For the most part, though, Bell's book is strong and witty, while Bowen, who writes very pleasant—if mostly unmemorable—music, displays an exciting gift for setting words to music. Both the lyrics and the script, in fact, feature writing that is often fresh and unexpected.

All four actors contribute outstanding performances, illustrating the different types of people and personalities that create art. For example, Heidi continues to audition and perform, while Susan has taken a day job (they sing about this discrepancy in their well-done duet, "What Kind of Girl Is She?"). And while Bowen is rather uptight and overly conscious of grammar, Bell is more laid-back, procrastinating with TV and autoeroticism.

All numbers are well executed, and each performer displays impeccable comic timing. Other highlights include "Die Vampire, Die!" (a warning against the "vampires" of self-doubt that paralyze creative people), "Part of It All" (a touching showcase for Bell and Bowen's desire to join the theater community), and "Nine People's Favorite Thing" (the inspirational closing anthem).

Frequent theatergoers (aficionados and die-hards) will find much to appreciate in [title of show], from the amusing voice-mail transitions (featuring many renowned theater performers) to the many references to musicals, both obscure and well known. Others, however, may find the material alienating, especially in "Monkeys and Playbills," a song that highlights Playbills from many now-defunct Broadway shows. While it is an inventive concept, the references are sometimes difficult to catch, even for those in the know.

Still, even audiences who are unfamiliar with the "in-language" of theater will be able to sympathize with the highs and lows of the creative process. As they wonder whether they should "sell out" (changing themselves and their show), Bell and Bowen raise important questions about the commercialization of theater—an industry that remains focused on product. Who can create art? Who are the important voices? And what compromises must one make to be heard?

By placing themselves (and their friends) front and center, Bell and Bowen remind us that real lives are what matters in theater. As referenced in "A Way Back to Then," there are still unaffected children with big dreams at the heart of musical theater, despite commercialism, financial greed, and artistic corruption. And in its own small, sweet, and endearing way, [title of show] encourages us to value the simplicity—and worth—of our own stories.

(Off-Off) Broadway Baby: Jersey Boys's John Lloyd Young

John Lloyd Young

Downtown theater can be grueling. Just ask John Lloyd Young, who, not so very long ago, found himself onstage with a gaping head wound from a self-inflicted gunshot in the unforgiving heat of summer.

"I had to lean my head against the exposed brick wall supposedly to hold my brain inside the hole in my head, and as I walked across the stage, I left a long smear of blood against it," he remembers. "When I stepped away from the wall, I had to hold my head up with my hand so my brain wouldn't fall out."

The production, Spring Awakening at Expanded Arts, a 30-seat storefront theater, encapsulates the ever-paradoxical nature of downtown theater, Young says. "It was disgusting, gruesome, hot, sticky, ghoulish: a barrel of laughs." Today, no longer battling onstage blood, Young is poised on the brink of stardom, at least by Broadway standards. His widely acclaimed performance as Frankie Valli in the hit

musical Jersey Boys has already generated early Tony Award buzz, as well as the accolades and respect of critics and fans alike, including Valli himself.

But while he currently plays to sold-out audiences at the August Wilson Theater, Young began his New York stage career-as so many performers do-in Off- and Off-Off-Broadway theaters. And while his move uptown places him in a more distinctly commercial theatrical environment, the actor-who admits to being in his late 20s-continues to cling to the artistic ideals that informed his work early on.

In fact, Young says his experiences downtown initially discouraged him from pursuing any Broadway roles at all. In Off- and Off-Off-Broadway shows, he relished "interesting" and "artistically challenging" material that was "sometimes so out there." Broadway shows, by comparison, were often "high on spectacle and low on bite."

Even after finding success on the Great White Way, Young still maintains that he never intended to work there. "To be perfectly honest," he says, "I began to get very resentful of Broadway. I was very angry. The musical shows seemed to be empty and artless, and those that were good had trouble attracting an audience."

The Broadway landscape has undoubtedly become increasingly commercial, and the appearance of the jukebox musical has been seen by many as perhaps its most emblematic, money-hungry product. Beloved by many tourists but maligned by most critics, the form splices together pre-existing songs from popular musical groups, with plots that, due to their slapdash genesis, can often seem overly simplistic and contrived. Recent jukebox ventures, both successful and less so, include Mamma Mia! (Abba), Movin' Out (Billy Joel), Good Vibrations (the Beach Boys), and this season's Ring of Fire (Johnny Cash).

Young himself acknowledges that the jukebox musical is at odds with the less conventional, progressive trends found in much Off- and Off-Off-Broadway theater. "I hate the jukebox musical, if 'jukebox musical' means an inane story line strung around recognizable songs making a fool of everyone onstage and in the audience," he says. "The shows that do that [present dumbed-down material] don't survive, probably because no one likes to be made a fool of."

But Jersey Boys, which tells the story of the Four Seasons, is, of course, a jukebox musical. So how does a veteran of downtown theater suddenly find himself in the middle of a jukebox? Although Young auditioned for "a lot of so-called jukebox shows," it wasn't until Jersey Boys

A scene from Jersey Boys

that he found a project he believed to be "at once commercially successful and still artistically challenging." And the critics agreed, praising the musical for embracing the actual history of the Four Seasons-depicting actual lives rather than trying to shoehorn music into a fictionalized structure.

Young credits "playable, actable scenes," a strong character arc, and highly demanding falsetto singing for creating a "steep enough challenge to create that fire inside my belly to want to surmount it." And it was Off- and Off-Off-Broadway theater that helped, in part, to fuel his desire to seek out huge challenges. "You do things like a storefront expressionist drama for no money while temping during the day," he remembers. "And [you] succeed at it—or fail—and emerge emboldened."

Citing one favorite Off-Broadway stage experience, at Target Margin Theater, he recalls, "Half the audience left at intermission; half stayed, mesmerized." The potency of Off-Broadway material can be divisive for an audience, but he relishes that knee-jerk response. Whether off Broadway or on, he values "an audacious and exciting theatrical environment where anything could happen."

The biggest benefits of working in a more commercial environment, Young says, are the "luxurious trappings" and the ability to enjoy "complete immersion in the work." Although playing a leading role in a powerhouse Broadway musical demands its share of one's free time (interviews, press events, benefits, etc.), there is plenty of luxury in "being paid enough to not have to split your attention with a survival job."

In fact, "luxury" is a word Young often uses to describe his new uptown performance venue. But for him the charm lies less in his solo dressing room and the wardrobe department and more in having enough time and energy to devote himself wholeheartedly to his craft. He admits to having been tremendously frustrated when he had to hold down "a survival job."

Jersey Boys

"I wanted nothing else than to dedicate all of my attention toward the project," he says. "There is nothing more frustrating than delving into something artistically irresistible to then have to go and type spreadsheets for some unimaginative dullard."

Even with additional time to focus, Young maintains that his approach to the craft has remained the same, whether the production is commercial or downtown. "I've always contended that working in front of an audience is the best training," he says. "And you're not going to be infected just because you're working commercially; you never forget the renegade guerilla experiences you've had. They become part of your artistic personality and sensibility."

So although he is now fronting a mainstream show, don't expect him to "suddenly be transformed into somebody who wants to do the next big revival of Oklahoma!," he says. "It's just not in my makeup. Jersey Boys is something I can do

and do well, because the person I was makes me right for it, not because I've suddenly melded into something new or more 'commercialized.' "

In addition to Jersey Boys, Young has found several other recent Broadway productions encouraging for both their artistic merit and wide audience following. He cites Doubt, The Light in the Piazza, The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee, and Avenue Q as shows that have become popular without sacrificing artistic integrity. (All have also won Tony Awards in recent years.) And even with steep differences in funding, resources, and expectations, he believes the worlds of Off-Broadway and Broadway are not mutually exclusive.

At least not completely. "There is certainly a big gulf between the kind of work that happens in a storefront theater on Ludlow Street and on a cruise ship," he admits. "Broadway can sometimes tend more towards cruise ship, of course, and almost never resembles anything you'd see at a storefront theater downtown.

"[Broadway] is a commercial enterprise, and your run-of-the-mill tourist doesn't always want to be 'challenged.' I heard some guy in a restaurant in the Theater District last night say, 'I don't like the plays where I have to think.' It's our job as artists to think, though. Part of the fun of what we do is 'tricking' people like him into thinking, without his realizing we've done it.'"

According to Young, the interplay between Broadway and Off- and Off-Off-Broadway theater happens primarily through its artists. Julie Taymor, for example, honed her craft for years before her innovative puppetry found a wider audience in Disney's stage adaptation of The Lion King. While her talent was certainly no secret to much of the theater community, her presence on Broadway made her a household name.

"The Lion King was the right fit for her in the commercial arena," Young says. "And suddenly the mainstream sees something 'new' without realizing that Taymor had been doing that stuff her whole career."

And this widening of scope need not be detrimental for the artist, he says. "As long as what's authentic to the artist isn't irretrievably lost or bastardized, then I think it's nice for them to be able to peek through to a more mainstream audience sometimes."

Young himself had hoped for a healthy career in Off-Broadway plays, peppered with "interesting film or TV projects." Thanks to Jersey Boys, the door is opening wider, but he still refuses to compromise his ideals. "If the next compelling project is Off-Broadway, and the next and the next after that, I'd be elated with that, too. It's really the role and the material that gets me going. The venue is an afterthought."

One thing he definitely plans to do in 2006 is support small companies as they continue to make new theater. In addition to Target Margin, to which he donates every year, he says he tries to donate to "emerging companies who are doing exciting work or whose mission I can stand behind. It changes every year. What is great about being on Broadway is that I I can afford to donate to more companies than I have in the past, and I'm excited about doing that this year."

Again, it's a luxury afforded by Broadway, but it's one that will benefit such theaters as the La Jolla Playhouse (where Jersey Boys originated) and the 52nd Street Project.

A dedicated supporter of up-and-coming theater, Young ranks "sheer force of will" as one of Off- and Off-Off-Broadway theater's many strengths. One weakness he has noticed, however, lies in the "strong strain of dilettantism" when people are not equally and fully dedicated to a project.

"It is enervating to someone who takes their art seriously to have to act alongside someone who's just fooling around or not serious about what they're doing," he says. "When you want to make a career of it and you're acting with people who are doing it just for fun, it can be very discouraging."

Like Valli, whose rags-to-riches story took him from working-class New Jersey to the height of fame, you could say that Young has graduated from downtown theater and "made it" on Broadway. But he refuses to see it that way, reaffirming his loyalty to the ever-shifting, ever-challenging unconventional houses that nurtured his early career.

Off- and Off-Off-Broadway theater, he points out, is a "boot camp for artists" and "a laboratory" where "stakes are lower financially so the tolerance for risk can be higher." And risk, of course, begets growth. Daring innovation is born of limited resources, and in this way "you can create a whole theatrical universe around a few blocks and a piece of fabric."

So how would he advise the hard-working people who continue to make Off- and Off-Off-Broadway theater, often quite unluxuriously?

"To keep on," he says. "It's really a noble struggle, a great place to experiment and fail and a gold mine of interesting people, ideas, and talent.

"It can be a morass, too. I don't think anyone would deny that. But when there are flashes of brilliance, it's blinding. To find the means and tenacity to continue to be able to create and thrive in a sometimes hostile environment is probably one of the most exhausting, exciting, rewarding experiences one can have."

Musical Milton

When considering source material for a musical, the epic battle between heaven and hell seems an unlikely—if not fatal—choice. And yet, creators Benjamin Birney (music and lyrics), Rob Seitelman (lyrics), and Seth Magoon (additional lyrics) have taken the bait, adapting John Milton's much-canonized poem Paradise Lost into a sexy and evocative full-length musical. Their efforts, while not always successful, are unquestionably valiant. Skillfully directed by Seitelman and ferociously performed by an attractive, amped-up cast, this Paradise Lost provides passionate, muscular entertainment. And the stakes, of course, are nothing short of grandiose. Lucifer, God's most trusted angel, reacts with jealousy and rage when God creates Adam and Eve. After a divisive battle (staged with force and grace by choreographer Jason Summers), Lucifer and his followers find themselves banished to hell, where they begin to plot against humankind. As Lucifer's power increases, he takes the name Satan, solidifying the diametric opposition of good and evil.

The problem, however, is that most of us already know how the story turns out, eliminating much of the suspense and conflict. Eve, of course, inevitably takes a bite from the forbidden fruit. But Birney and Seitelman have wisely inserted a new character into the story—Sophia, Lucifer's lover. Representing various incarnations of the feminine divine, Sophia is "Wisdom" in the Bible and appears in both Eastern and Western religions. Here, she is also sent to hell with Lucifer, but her sympathy for Adam and Eve brings much-needed conflict and complexity to both her character and the entire show. We may know what happens to Adam and Eve, but what happens to Sophia is anyone's guess.

Birney has penned a lovely, difficult score for the sung-through show, full of sophisticated (often a cappella) choral writing, powerful anthems, and spunky vaudevillian numbers. Too often, however, the songs are too lengthy and begin to blend together. As it dutifully reflects incendiary themes of battle and revenge, the music is finally unable to successfully maintain the continuous fervor the material demands. The dynamics explode almost instantaneously as the action begins, leaving little room to build in intensity as the show progresses.

The action also becomes a bit blurry in spots; with so much plotting and bellowing going on, it is often difficult to track exactly which battle is being waged. And the emphasis on sexuality, while it creates intriguing conflict (a love triangle of sorts between Sophia, Lucifer, and Eve, for one), sometimes feels forced. The personifications of Sin and Death, for example, appear to be castaways from the latest revival of Cabaret, clad in sadomasochist splendor that is more embarrassing than effective. And in "The Temptation of Eve" (and a few other songs), the melody is obscured by the addition of percussive accompaniment that sounds suspiciously like tacky porn music.

The multitalented cast rises to the challenge of the material, offering well-sung, convincing performances. Paul A. Schaefer dominates the stage as Lucifer/Satan; he's a charming, seductive villain who sings and moves with finesse. Danielle Erin Rhodes is forceful and compassionate as Sophia, and although Adam and Eve function as little more than pawns for the angels, Darryl Calmese and Ashleigh Davidson (in particular) bring remarkable depth to their performances. Sarah Madej and Tynan Davis turn in beautifully sung, radiant performances as the angels Raphael and Terathel. (Music director Jeremy Randall also deserves accolades for his meticulous work on some difficult choral passages.)

The angels spar on a bare stage, and they are simply adorned (white tank tops for angels; black for fallen angels), with wings suggestively painted on the backs of their arms by the creative costume and makeup designer, Sarah Levine.

A dedicated (and sometimes thrilling) attempt to create a dramatic miracle from problematic material, this Paradise Lost doesn't quite work as a musical. But the talented cast and crew have created a production that is well worth watching, and Birney and Seitelman are a promising young team of musical theater writers. One hopes that, as they begin their next project, they will assume a task of less epic proportions.

Separately Together

Sometimes it's hard to pinpoint exactly why a musical flops. Take, for instance, Side Show. Despite earning four Tony Award nominations (including Best Musical) as well as a cult following, the show played a scant 91 performances during the 1997-98 Broadway season. Thanks to the reliable Gallery Players, it is now enjoying a heartfelt revival in Brooklyn—its first major New York-area production since its Broadway debut. Based on the true story of conjoined twins Daisy and Violet Hilton, Side Show chronicles the twins' rise to fame on the 1930s vaudeville circuit. Bill Russell and Henry Krieger penned a gorgeous score for the nearly sung-through show, including several power ballads that have since become contemporary standards.

Central to the show, however, are the twins, and director Matt Schicker has helmed an earnest production that smartly puts Daisy and Violet's humanity at the forefront. The action unfurls at a brisk, heady speed, carrying the audience along with the twins on their turbulent whirlwind adventure toward realizing their dreams.

Enterprising producers Terry Connor and Buddy Foster discover Daisy and Violet at a seedy Texas sideshow and lure them away from their diabolical Boss. Daisy and Violet "want to be like everyone else," but that means something different for each of them. The more introverted Violet longs for a loving husband and a family life, while Daisy, the extrovert, wants to be rich and famous.

They rocket to stardom as Buddy coaches them in song and dance, and romance also blooms (a bit problematically) among the foursome. Daisy is instantly (and very obviously) drawn to Terry, while Violet privately nurtures her slowly developing love for Buddy. By the end, each twin has realized her dream, but not exactly as she had hoped.

As the twins, Kristen Sergeant and Tiffany Diane Smith give convincing portrayals of two very disparate personalities. Smith is a comic delight as Daisy, and she mixes a lovely old-movie-musical charm with sassy grit to create a very fresh interpretation of the more feisty twin. As good as Smith is, however, Sergeant steals the show as Violet. Her graceful, open performance exhibits all of Violet's conflict and sensitivity; you never doubt her.

Both have strong, captivating voices that combine to sound like one, and the production numbers are well paced to showcase their developing talents. "Rare Songbirds on Display" is a vocal highlight, as is the big Act I closer, "Who Will Love Me as I Am?" A successful wig job makes Sergeant and Smith look alike, but I couldn't help wishing that more effort had been put into making them appear to be the same height (adjusting shoe height and matching their hemlines) to further suspend disbelief.

Energetic Jimmy Hays Nelson makes a perfect Buddy, youthful and bright with a stunning tenor voice. Matt Witten brings a slick, smarmy charm to Terry, and his performance—along with his warm, easy voice—becomes more solid in Act II.

In the rather thankless role of Jake, the black "cannibal king" who leaves the sideshow to accompany the twins on their journey, Melvin Shambry shows a lot of vocal passion, but his acting doesn't quite bring that fire into his interactions with other characters. Greg Horton is deliciously disturbing as the tyrannical Boss.

The ensemble offers strong performances, both collectively and individually. Unfortunately, they are often encumbered by awkward choreography and staging. In "The Devil You Know," a bit of West Side Story-inspired choreography turns the stage into a morass of misguided bodies, muffling the vocals. And at the end of several scenes, cast members slink slowly away from the action, fading offstage without any clear motivation.

Joseph Trainor has devised a creative and functional set that employs moving wooden panels painted for each sideshow character, while Melanie Swersey has chosen a lovely palette of costumes for the large cast.

Side Show is such an abbreviated ride that you can't help wanting to know even more about Daisy and Violet. Out of their personal tragedy (wanting what one simply cannot have) springs a very universal need—the desire to be loved for who and what you are, without apology. And in this production, the Gallery Players poignantly explore this theme as they bring the twins' story to life.

So why did the show flop on Broadway? One theory: Side Show launched the careers of Alice Ripley and Emily Skinner, who shared a 1998 Tony nomination for their performances as the Hiltons. Perhaps the nominating committee's decision to lump two very distinctive performances into one reflected the attitude of an audience (and society) that wasn't quite ready for the Hilton twins, and was more comfortable with grouping them together and casting them—once again—as freaks.

Liberated

While it no longer packs the emotional punch of, say, Sophie's choice, Nora Helmer's decision to leave her marriage—and her children—to pursue her own happiness still resonates as one of the most thrilling denouements in theater. In A Doll's House, Henrik Ibsen daringly thwarted the social conventions of 1879 Copenhagen, challenging audiences to debate the character of a woman who, trapped in unhappy circumstances, finds her way out. In Nora, his 1981 adaptation of Ibsen's classic play, Ingmar Bergman pares down the cast and strips away scenes to better examine the cascade of forces that act on Ibsen's famous protagonist. In his streamlined revision, she emerges as a true prisoner of her household, but, more important, the extent to which she has been imprisoned within herself becomes frightfully apparent. While impeded by some problematic performances, Test Pilot Productions nonetheless offers an admirable New York premiere of Nora, thoughtfully directed by Pamela Moller Kareman.

Beneath the arches of the ArcLight Theater, set designer Joseph J. Egan places Nora within a half-circle of ominous birch trees, where she remains—minus one quick costume change—for the play's entire 90 minutes. The other four characters sit along the circle's perimeter, filtering through the trees to enter for their scenes, but otherwise simply watching the action as it unfolds. (Interestingly, Bergman used a similar device in his 1991 direction of A Doll's House at the Brooklyn Academy of Music.)

The omnipresence of these observers heightens the urgency of Nora's situation. Years earlier, she had borrowed money from Nils Krogstad to secure money for a trip abroad to benefit her husband Torvald's precarious health, forging her deceased father's signature on the promissory note. Now, Krogstad, whose bank job is in jeopardy, threatens to tell Torvald the truth—unless, of course, Nora can persuade her husband, newly promoted at the bank, to let Krogstad keep his job.

Backed into a corner, Nora unsuccessfully pleads with Krogstad, enlists the empathy of her long-lost friend Mrs. Linde, and considers how she might procure money from family friend Dr. Rank. Throughout, Torvald's cloying, patronizing treatment of his wife becomes more and more evident, building to their final—and powerfully realized—confrontation.

Ibsen's fully drawn characters resonate with both positive and negative traits, and Carey Macaleer finds the contrasts in Nora, deftly portraying her selfishness, vulnerability, and steeliness. Her high, chirpy voice belies her inner torment, and one can see how she is, as she describes herself, "not happy, only cheerful." It's a subtle difference, but one she plays well.

The other actors, unfortunately, are less successful in developing fully resonant characters. While perhaps limited by an abbreviated script, Troy Myers, as Torvald, is overly stiff, monotonous, and lethargic in his delivery. A more complex performance from this unsympathetic character would certainly give Nora's final decision more credence.

Sneering and gesticulating with abandon, John Tyrrell overplays the villainous Krogstad. And although Sarah Bennett and Tyne Firmin show welcome restraint as Mrs. Linde and Dr. Rank, respectively, neither has enough stage time to leave much of an impression.

But it is, after all, Nora's show, and this production is most notable for the attention paid to her journey. Matt Stine's original music underscores her thinly disguised manic state with taut intensity; in well-executed transitions, hauntingly and thoughtfully revealed by David Pentz's lighting, we watch Nora fall apart as she acts out her anger. These episodes reveal a woman whose real, serious emotions are perilously locked away.

To walk out on one's husband is far from scandalous by today's standards, but the struggle between Nora and Torvald—provoked by issues of money, integrity, and power—feels all too familiar. In a recent New York Times column, Judith Warner addressed the death of Betty Friedan (The Feminine Mystique) and the failure of our society to fully realize her ideals. "We women have, in many very real ways, at long last made good on Ms. Friedan's dream that we would reach 'our full human potential—by participating in the mainstream of society,' " she writes. "But, for mothers in particular, at what cost? With what degree of exhaustion? And with what soul-numbing sacrifices made along the way?"

Nora's life, as rendered by Ibsen and Bergman, certainly registers as "soul-numbing," and the play offers an important glimpse into the first murmurs of the feminist movement, which, it would seem, is still in need of further advancement. While Nora's words might often sound antiquated to our ears, much of it is all too familiar. "No one sacrifices his honor for love," Torvald tells his wife, who replies, "Thousands of women have." Watching Nora march out that door yet again, it's still difficult to imagine exactly where (or when) she might find true happiness and fulfillment.

On Thin Ice

Beware the paralyzing power of public perception. In Theater Ten Ten's engrossing revival of Kiss and Cry, playwright Tom Rowan adeptly examines two arenas in which public persona is a make-or-break factor—figure skating and Hollywood. Actors and figure skaters achieve fame only to become veritable public property, spawning legions of fans obsessed not only with their talents but also with the most infinitesimal details of their personal lives. Rather than confront the origins of our obsession with celebrity, Rowan approaches his subject on a more personal level, chronicling the lives of two young stars with wit and sensitivity as they package themselves for public view. But the images they create, of course, bear little resemblance to the lives they truly wish to lead.

Stacy and Fiona first meet in Los Angeles at the premiere party for Fiona's new movie, Vampire Campus. Stacy is an up-and-coming pairs figure skater, while Fiona longs to appear in more substantial films. Discovering their shared preference for same-sex partners, they form a fast friendship. As they exit the party, a photographer snaps a picture, and their relationship suddenly becomes fodder for celebrity gossip columnists.

Pouncing on what she perceives as a golden opportunity, Fiona suggests that they play along with the story, letting their fans believe they are a couple. Stacy initially hesitates, but after a disquieting conversation with his skating partner, Brittany (who wonders whether he is a "faggot" or a "homo" in the chilling, derisive language of fundamentalist homophobia), he accepts Fiona's offer.

Embraced by the press, their relationship flourishes, and their careers do, too. Fiona finally lands a more legit role, while Stacy and Brittany win nationals and begin to prepare for the Olympics. As the relationship spins out of control, however, what was intended as a brief courtship turns into a marriage, spawning action figures and exercise videos; their personal lives, consequently, begin to feel the negative effects of their elaborate pantomime.

Stacy becomes involved with a fan named Trent, who begins to complain loudly about the enforced secrecy of their relationship, warning Stacy, "Lies come back to haunt you." And Fiona, who has lived with her girlfriend Lauren for years in their East Village apartment, has hell to pay when Lauren—usually immersed in alternative, feminist publications—finally uncovers her deception.

Lauren's rift with Fiona runs deeper than the matter of falsified sexuality, however. Committed to reaching people through the progressive theater she creates, Lauren has written plays for Fiona to perform that support their shared artistic vision. She accuses Fiona of selling out and "merchandising" herself to the mainstream culture, and their ensuing argument about the transformative powers of art is one of the play's most tautly written, directed, and performed scenes.

Director Kevin Newbury moves the action forward at a controlled pace that never feels rushed or labored. Clever voice-overs and upbeat music animate the transitions between scenes, and Robert Monaco's austere set keeps the focus on the performers.

For a show with figure skating as a main subject, it could be problematic that we never actually get to see any skating. Locker room scenes bring us close, however, and Joanne Haas's beautiful skating costumes add believability to the actors' athleticism.

Most of the cast participated in the play's hit run at the 2004 Fringe Festival, and the veterans have their characters firmly in hand. David Lavine is exceedingly earnest and lovable as Stacy, wearing his heart on his sleeve so palpably that, watching closely, you might even see him blush. Julie Leedes brings a sunny, girl-next-door energy to Fiona, likable even when her calculating actions threaten to expose her self-centeredness.

As Lauren, Nell Gwynn is instantly persuasive as a feminist playwright with transform-the-world ideals, and her intensity is tempered by her sure-footed delivery of many of the play's most ironic lines. Elizabeth Cooke offers a flawless performance as Brittany, innocently spouting the maxims of her fundamentalist upbringing, and Reed Prescott turns in a touching performance as Stacy's conflicted figure-skating friend-cum-lover, Ethan. Only Timothy Dunn, the cast's newcomer, struggles a bit with the bombastic Trent, and his over-the-top quality distracts at times from the realism of the other performances.

As Brittany laments the skating duo's loss of their "wholesome Christian kid appeal," it becomes clear that very nearly everyone has an image to sell. In Kiss and Cry, choosing to compromise your identity brings devastating consequences, and it is impossible to delude others without somehow deluding yourself.

Even realizing your utmost dreams, it turns out, offers little relief, and Fiona and Stacy become both perpetrators and victims of erratic cultural expectations. As a bit of dialogue attests, one must "encourage the untrue rumors to shut down the true ones." But when the truth is eradicated, what steps in to take its place?

Inhuman

Dread, terror, and paranoia run rampant through our society these days, the newspapers tell us, promulgated by the forces of war and an ever-growing culture of fear. Ostensibly written in response (and protest) to the Vietnam War, Walter Wangerin, Jr.'s prescient novel The Book of the Dun Cow is an antiwar diatribe that also parallels the current war in Iraq. Randy Courts and Mark St. Germain have adapted Wangerin's material into the most unlikely of forms—a musical—with quite thrilling results. In this haunting and cerebral production by the Prospect Theater Company, The Book of the Dun Cow examines existential questions of war, its motivations, and the responses it generates.

And did I mention that the protagonists are animals?

Welcome to an alternative universe where animals are the keepers of the earth, presided over by the gregarious and slightly pompous rooster Chauntecleer. When a neighboring ruler, Senex, decides to produce an heir, he unwittingly brings forth Cockatrice and the evil of the underworld (Wyrm). As animals begin to die, Chauntecleer must make difficult decisions about war and its consequences.

Although you might be tempted to interpret the show (the first act, at least) as an allegorical tale that predicts the coming of the Dun Cow (a savior figure of sorts), Wangerin's story pushes beyond the simple assignation of roles to a more complex narrative. As a result, characters are rich and multidimensional, but the story itself is so densely written that it is often difficult to tease out a clear sense of what has actually taken place (and why).

But in a story chronicling war, you might argue, this ambiguity is so much the better. War is, after all, cloaked in mystery; as Chauntecleer's wife (the hen Pertelote) queries, in the darkness of battle, "Who can tell who's right?"

Director Cara Reichel has created a thoroughly believable world for her characters, paying careful attention to the inherent power of storytelling. When the Narrator (Jacob Grigolia-Rosenbaum) takes the stage, he carefully opens a book. The animals file on wordlessly, giving the Narrator their undivided attention. As he begins the story, the characters come to life to act out the tale.

And although the Narrator somewhat perplexingly closes the book before the show ends, this too seems a conscience choice. "Is this the moment when the animals' story becomes our story?" wondered the friend who accompanied me. We weren't able to come up with a definitive answer, but the debate that ensued over this and other plot points indicated that The Book of the Dun Cow is replete with questions—imperative ones worth thinking about.

Courts and St. Germain's sophisticated, contemporary score, buttressed by percussion and guitar, has a sound all its own, full of lavish harmonies and evocative melodies. Marcus Baker leads an accomplished orchestra through the fine orchestrations provided by Courts and Daniel Feyer.

Portraying an animal can be a risky endeavor for an actor (the risk of embarrassment certainly runs high), but—thanks in part to David Withrow's intriguing and resourceful costume design—the performers are fully believable in their anthropomorphic state. Rather than attempting to realistically "transform" the actors into animals, Withrow merely suggests their animalistic traits. Boots, corsets, and vests form the standard uniform; a red scarf suggests a rooster's wobble, while the dog Mundo Cani sports a canine-channeling droopy hat. Hand puppets add another innovative touch.

Similarly, the performers, with a few exceptions, do not overplay their animal affectations, wisely opting for more subtle mannerisms. As a whole, this is a fierce ensemble of actors, wholly dedicated to their task. As the sparring roosters Cockatrice and Chauntecleer, Micah Bucey and Brian Munn dominate the proceedings with powerful, captivating performances. Vanessa June Marshall brings delicate sensitivity and a crystal voice to Pertelote, and David Foley Jr. offers a tender and mighty-voiced performance as Mundo Cani.

Paulo Seixas has provided an appealing multilevel set for the actors, but unfortunately Jessica Hendricks's choreography often fails to take full advantage of it. After exhilarating battle scenes and affecting group montages, the simplistic choreography in many of the full-ensemble songs often undermines its intricate accompaniment. This cast and this story, in other words, deserve more than a simple "step, touch, repeat" routine.

Why do we fight, and what do we hope to accomplish? What can we ever accomplish? Like the recent film Munich, The Book of the Dun Cow argues that even as we work to stamp out evil, it will always find a way to regenerate itself. Although the musical very nearly collapses under the weighty questions it poses, it is an intriguing inquiry into fundamental questions. When confronted with evil, do we resist violence, Chauntecleer asks, or do we "become a rat to kill a rat"?

Musical Romp

"Pardon the proximity of my person to your own." So steeped in politeness (and alliteration), these are hardly the words one expects to hear from the mouth of a prostitute. But in the world of fiction—and musical theater—possibilities expand. In the tradition of such innocent-girl-meets-big-city, city-proves-bad-influence tales as Thomas Dreiser's famous novel Sister Carrie, John Cleland's 18th-century novel Fanny Hill is tantalizing fodder for musical adaptation. If Ed Dixon's music and script are often meandering and overly simplistic, the ever-dependable York Theater Company has produced an endearing, jaunty romp of a show. And the overqualified cast, without fail, rises above the mostly mediocre material to turn in delightful performances.

Leading the pack is Nancy Anderson, who embodies the title character with sincerity and grace. Displaying vulnerability and pluck (sometimes simultaneously), Anderson brings to mind a young Bernadette Peters. With striking and precise comic timing, her strong performance anchors the show as the young heroine sets off to seek her fortune and encounters many curves in the road.

And Fanny certainly has ample ups and downs to navigate on her picaresque adventure. Orphaned in the small village of Lancashire, she arrives in London with little money but plenty of determination. The devious Mrs. Brown (Patti Allison), spying easy prey, scoops her off the street and whisks her into her house of prostitutes. Initially charmed by the house's splendor and luxuries, Fanny recoils when she discovers how the girls come by their money. After she falls in love with Charles (Tony Yazbeck), a sailor who spots her through her window, Fanny runs away to live with him. But when the sailors kidnap Charles and take him back to sea, Fanny finds herself back at Mrs. Brown's house, looking for refuge.

Resigned to her lot, Fanny throws herself into her new career, perfecting the prostitute's trade and becoming a kept woman for a wealthy country lord. The action finally resolves in a happily-ever-after(-ish) manner, but not until the requisite amount of mayhem and clever coincidences have occurred.

Billed as a takeoff on "the world's most infamous naughty book," Fanny Hill rarely feels truly naughty; sex scenes are highly stylized, and much of the humor comes from Fanny's wide-eyed, naïve reactions to provocative situations. With tongue firmly in cheek, the show often channels famous period pieces such as Candide and The Pirates of Penzance (the sailors, for one, immediately recall those infamous pirates). While comparably playful and frothy, Fanny Hill lacks the depth of those superior productions.

And Dixon's music cannot even begin to compete with the songs of Leonard Bernstein or Gilbert and Sullivan. Dixon's sprightly melodies are often as simple and repetitious as tunes from a music box. Largely unmemorable, the songs too often rely on short, rhymed phrases ("There's not enough pain / and I never was vain") that fail to develop into more substantive passages.

There are notable exceptions, however, which point to Dixon's promise as a songwriter. "Honor Lost," Fanny's lament after she first exchanges sex for money, is an evocative and moving ballad wrenchingly performed by Anderson, and "Every Man in London" is a show-stopping comedy song for the raunchy Mrs. Brown. Allison makes every moment count, and she quite deservedly brings down the house.

But with an ensemble that boasts such esteemed talents as Emily Skinner and David Cromwell, it seems a waste to let them languish in repeated, interminable choruses of "Clippy-clop-clip/Clippy-clippy-clop-clip" (the sound of horses as Fanny travels). If they feel their training is wasted, however, you'd never guess it from their dedicated performances. Skinner delights as Martha, Mrs. Brown's maid, while Cromwell shows comic flourish in several craggy, curmudgeonly roles. Michael J. Farina, Adam Monley, Gina Ferrall, and Christianne Tisdale round out the talented ensemble.

In the stock dreamy-male leading role (see Frederick in Pirates), Yazbeck gives a winning performance as Charles. Armed with a full-bodied, silky voice (as well as the uncanny ability to achieve beautiful resonance while splayed out on his back), Yazbeck should attract the attention of many casting directors. Keep watch on this up-and-coming young actor.

Fanny Hill, with its feisty young ingénue and torrid subject matter, would seem to be a prime candidate for musicalization. Widely considered the first "erotic" novel, Cleland's book, in print since 1749, has been the subject of multiple debates over censorship. Unfortunately, Dixon's adaptation ultimately lacks the substance to make Fanny's story a true theatrical event.

Still, James Brennan's direction is crisp and nuanced, Michael Bottari and Ronald Case's set and costumes are creative and lavish, and the cast is first rate, making this something of a guilty pleasure—a buoyant exercise in frivolity. "If you hold your head high and keep walking," Fanny says, "you might just end up where you're going." And at the York Theater, chins are held deliriously high.

Dirty Work

Sleeping Booty. Throbin Wood. Snow White and the Seven Sailors. These were the characters and stories that captivated 11-year-old Andrew Goffman, and, as you may suspect, this was not the stuff of innocent fairy tales—instead, Snow White and her Seven Sailors were engaged in full-blown, hard-core pornography. In his one-man show, The Accidental Pervert, Goffman blends standup comedy with drama to tell his personal story of coming to terms with an (accidental) addiction to pornography. Although he successfully displays his extensive knowledge of the genre while managing to land a number of well-timed jokes, the show fails to deliver on its promise and potential. Instead of delving more deeply into more substantive questions about his addiction and its consequences, Goffman contentedly skims over the surface, reducing the show to a rather sophomoric exercise in easy jokes and bathroom humor.

"None of us start out to be a pervert," Goffman asserts. "It's life that does it to you." Life, in this case, turns out to be dirty videos and a VCR. When his father moves out, Goffman's idyllic family life is shattered. Longing to feel close to his father, he scours his closet, discovering a hidden cardboard box filled with porn. The videos become addiction and escape for Goffman, warping his mind and skewing his expectations of what both women and sex should be.

That pornography has the power to manipulate one's thoughts is hardly new information, and Goffman's retelling of his sexual awakening as influenced by pornography lacks shock value. Instead, his stories are often conventional, predictable, and tiresome. Yes, his mother forbade him to masturbate ("Don't touch yourself down there or your hand will stick to it"). Yes, he played doctor with a young female friend so they could see each other naked. Yes, his first real sexual encounter (at 15) was a disappointment. We've heard these stories before, and we'll hear them again.

Unfortunately, the fresh and potentially enlightening story Goffman could tell is left largely unexamined. When he meets his future wife, Maria, he tells us, he changes from a womanizing, self-destructive cad into a straight-laced, responsible man. And when they have a daughter, Goffman throws away his porn collection for good. Regrettably, he does little to explore exactly why and how these transformations take place. He does tell us that he suddenly realizes the women in the porn videos could be his wife or daughter, but it seems unbelievable that the revelation could be so instantaneous and complete. And why, for example, didn't he have this revelation when he fell in love with his wife (a "good girl," as he describes her)?

While Goffman hits the mark on a few of the more humorous aspects of adolescence and childbearing (his take on conceiving a child is particularly witty), director Charles Messina would do well to excise or shorten many of the silly, protracted porn fantasies and dance sequences in favor of a more detailed exploration of Goffman's choices and character. Surrounded by an old recliner, a large TV screen, and a hefty jar of Vaseline, Goffman makes an amiable confidant. His self-portrayal, however, most often feels paper-thin. Adding dimension and depth to his characterization would make us sympathize with him more (as well as explain why his wife—presumably so intelligent and accomplished—would fall in love with him).

The Accidental Pervert is, as intended, a story about pornography and the dangers of projecting fantasy onto reality. Its noticeable gaps, however, are the most intriguing parts of Goffman's story, and many powerful questions go unanswered. How did his wife react to his obsession with porn? How did his "kinda-sorta" twisted view of women begin to change? How did pornography influence his ideas about manhood and masculinity? And if pornography was a "legacy" or "rite of manhood" unwittingly passed down from his father, what does this say about societal expectations for men?

Raised on Woodcock Lane in Blue Ball, Pa., near the town of Intercourse, Goffman seems almost absurdly well suited to telling a story of unintentional perversion. While at times endearing, The Accidental Pervert is too often cutesy and contrived, and the image Goffman projects is less of a grown man who has dealt with an addiction and more of a mischievous boy who still revels in discussing its depravity. Although he claims to have thrown out the porn for good, you get the feeling he might still have one copy of Sleeping Booty stashed away somewhere, just waiting to be discovered. Accidentally, of course.

Other Voices

The effect of being shoehorned into your seat at the Helen Hayes Theater is not unlike taking your preferred form of public transportation, whether subway, bus, or train. Legroom is in short supply, but elbow contact abounds. Still, there is no better way to make the trip through this Bridge & Tunnel than being crammed in shoulder to shoulder with people you've never seen before, and very likely will never see again. A much-hyped, much-celebrated success at Off-Broadway's Culture Project last year, Sarah Jones's solo tour de force has survived its uptown trek intact, continuing its celebration of the spectacular diversity that defines New York City. Written and performed by Jones, who persuasively inhabits more than a dozen different characters, Bridge & Tunnel features personalities that traditional Broadway audiences have all too rarely seen—voices that are accented, transplanted, and grappling for definition.

As a framework for her characters, Jones wisely chooses a form of theater historically tied to the world of downtown performance—the poetry slam. As introduced by good-natured host and comedian-wannabe Mohammed Ali (definitely not the boxer), a series of poets (and would-be poets) step up to the microphone at the Bridge & Tunnel Café in Queens. Undeterred by the exposed pipes and brick walls of David Korins's carefully demolished set, they speak not only because they want to but because they need to.

Using her powers of observation as much as her acting training, Jones worked for years to create these characters, and the results are disarmingly authentic. Clad simply in black, Jones layers on a variety of accessories (jackets, hats, glasses) to distinguish between characters, but such surface differentiation is hardly necessary given the indelible nuances she brings to each performance. No one actress should be able to embody such a variety of ages, accents, experiences, and postures, but such is Jones's miraculous range.

Jones is no showoff, though, and she gives herself over to her performances so completely you almost forget she is there. Among the many standout characters are Bao, a young Vietnamese boy who uses poetry as "a slur-proof shield"; Mrs. Ling, a Chinese mother coming to terms with her daughter's unconventional romantic choices; Juan Jose, a wheelchair-bound Hispanic man who shares the story of his lost love and destroyed body; a petrified 11-year-old Dominican student from the Bronx whose poem, "I Don't Want to Grow Up," is an affecting spin on the perils of adulthood; and, of course, the affable Mohammed, who returns intermittently to "bring the next poet coming." And while one character near the end, a Russian Jew from Brooklyn named Boris, seems less developed than the rest, his presence still enriches the broad landscape of experiences represented here.

While some of the performers do more talking than poeticizing, they all reveal their experiences with the ever-elusive American Dream. Whether confronting prejudiced real estate brokers, unfaithful lovers, or reductive stereotypes, these characters are hungry for freedom, acceptance, and recognition. As a conduit for these characters, Jones links them at once to herself and to each other. In the absence of a specific shared heritage, she underlines their common humanity.

Meryl Streep, a champion (and sometimes producer) of the show since its downtown days, has praised Jones for both her authenticity and her gift for "compassionate storytelling." Indeed, it is Jones's tremendous empathy that allows her to connect to her characters so seamlessly. With her open, straightforward style, she extends this compassion to the audience as well, creating a compelling transaction between character and audience.

This audience involvement is a staple of many poetry readings, and Tony Taccone's dynamic direction ensures that the audience is an integral part of the show. Lighting designer Howell Binkley has strung multicolored lights far out into the audience, connecting us to the stage and its player(s). Each character seems to speak directly to us, inviting audience participation, response, connection, and, perhaps most profoundly, empathy.

At one moment, Mohammed quips that he might be "hiding the limericks of mass destruction," but his joke only undermines the very real threat to minorities present in this country. While it's tempting to be swept away by the entertainment, the show encourages a vital political act—the imperative, instructive practice of listening to a collage of voices and experiences.

If Bridge & Tunnel leaves you wanting more of these lively personalities (as it undoubtedly will), count yourself lucky. Whether it's on the crowded streets, in your neighborhood, or on the subway, there are important stories to tell and be told, Jones contends. Just follow the trail back to Bridge & Tunnel's origins in downtown theater. Or, better yet, simply listen to the person crammed into the seat beside you.

Domestic Politics

The perpetual urge to rearrange furniture suggests emotional unrest, and when the curtain rises on Lovely Day, we find Fran arranging and rearranging the beautiful objects in her well-decorated living room. This ongoing reconfiguration works as a brilliant metaphor in Leslie Ayvazian's trim and thoughtful domestic drama. On Fran and Martin's anniversary, their 17-year-old son, Brian, returns home with the news that a military recruiter has visited his school. As the couple discusses this new development, they begin to pick at the veneer of their relationship, exposing layers of emotional disconnection. The resulting action brings political subjects into highly personal focus. "It reminded me of what's there," Fran explains, after moving a set of cumbersome bookshelves, and the Play Company's incendiary production unearths both old resentments and shocking surprises in a seemingly comfortable marriage.

Martin, a successful designer, is the family's breadwinner, while Fran's painting career seems to have leveled off. She now fills her time meeting with "the group," which turns out to be an assembly of peaceful demonstrators. When Brian offhandedly mentions the military recruiter's visit, she reveals to Martin that while he was away training to be an officer in the Vietnam War early in their marriage, she was secretly attending war protests.

Martin complains early on that their "politics have diverged," but suddenly it appears that their beliefs have been widely disparate all along. Confronted with their son's potential involvement in the Iraq war, Martin and Fran find themselves at war in their living room, with words as their weapons.

Accomplished actress Blair Brown (a Tony Award winner for her performance in Copenhagen) makes her New York directing debut with Lovely Day, proving that she is just as adept offstage as on. She allows the action to build at a very controlled pace, and the couple's arguments unfold with an authenticity that is staggering in its precision and tension. David Korins's warmly hued set works as the perfect upper-middle-class battlefield, enhanced by the convivial glow of Paul Whitaker's lighting design.

Ayvazian develops her dialogue with David Mamet-like briskness and Edward Albee-esque viciousness, and the inclusion of domestic elements (the sound of Brian practicing electric guitar in his upstairs bedroom, the couple's planning and execution of a party) only magnifies the severity of the couple's disputes.

The play investigates the rather naïve assumptions we make about those closest to us, as well as how familiarity and unfamiliarity can exist so inauspiciously in a relationship. For while Martin and Fran can communicate in a nonverbal language all their own, often anticipating a response or simply grunting or gesturing, they have remained complacently ignorant about each other's deepest values and ideals.

Deirdre O'Connell and David Rasche are perfectly cast as the sparring couple, and their airtight rapport should be required viewing for acting students. O'Connell captures Fran's artistic eccentricity and earnest conviction, while Rasche gives a thoroughly compelling, subtle performance as the rather turgid Martin. Both characters are flawed, but both are sympathetic—having no clear winner always makes an argument more interesting to watch.

As young Brian, Javier Picayo makes the most of his limited stage time, convincingly portraying the natural gap that widens between parents and their teenage children. It's never clear exactly where Brian—who would rather play his guitar than consider his future—stands on the topics that have divided his parents. And this may be the most powerful statement of all. While his parents may passionately argue, it is Brian who will ultimately have to face the consequences of the country's actions; whether by the country or his parents, his future seems to have been decided for him.

"Words are what we have," Fran avows, and Ayvazian's script shows the destructive and illuminating ways in which we grip onto our words and our ideals. In Lovely Day, neither playwright nor director shies away from exposing the costs and compromises of domestic negotiations. The political and intimate are bound to intersect, and this very topical production will undoubtedly leave you thinking for some time to come.